


The Five-Ish Stages of Grief

by nonelvis



Series: Across the Universe [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-20
Updated: 2012-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-29 19:57:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonelvis/pseuds/nonelvis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I could be wrong," the Doctor said, "but I'm fairly certain 'rebound sex' is not one of the five stages of grief."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Five-Ish Stages of Grief

**Author's Note:**

> Belated birthday fic for platypus -- happy birthday! This story takes place in the same universe as [Fake Palindromes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/19576), [You That Way; We This Way](http://archiveofourown.org/works/40723), and [Souvenirs](http://archiveofourown.org/works/119216), but is set chronologically before the other three, so there's no need to do extra reading unless you want to.

**Denial**  
It was an uncomfortable journey from Bad Wolf Bay to Bergen's zeppelin docks, and not just because the Doctor's knees were jammed against his chin in the back seat of the microscopic taxi they'd hired. Jackie was happily jabbering away to the driver, but Rose had huddled up next to the side window and was pointedly ignoring the Doctor.

Still, she hadn't quite let go of his hand. Sure, they were crammed so tight against each other in this ludicrous clown car that Rose couldn't help but grab on to the Doctor's knee for support, while he'd chivalrously covered her hand with his to stabilise her; but that still counted, didn't it?

Only hours on his own in this new world, everything he'd known ripped away except for the crumpled-up girl beside him. It had better count.

He squeezed Rose's hand, and she turned to look at him with watery eyes.

"He'll come back for us, won't he? He wouldn't just leave us here. You're the closest thing he's got to another one of his people now, yeah?"

"I'm not sure that's something he wants to remember just now, Rose." He ran his thumb along the side of her hand, a gesture that had often calmed her, but apparently didn't today.

Come to think of it, it wasn't working so well for him, either.

"He'll come back," she said, her voice cracking. "He has to."

* * *

It'd been years – regenerations, even – since he'd last been on a zeppelin. The R101 had been much larger and more well-appointed, but the sleek business-class model Pete had chartered for their passage across the North Sea was comfortable enough. There was a small lounge, where the Doctor had chatted with Jackie while she raided the minibar for wine and biscuits to share; there was also a cozy stateroom, where Rose had holed up the instant they'd come aboard, and where the Doctor had unexpectedly found himself in bed with her approximately one hundred and twenty-seven minutes later, give or take twelve seconds. His time-sense felt a bit off in this universe.

The stateroom's folding bed was really only big enough for one, but somehow they'd managed. What had started as an attempt to comfort Rose had turned into a lengthy hug, which had gradually descended from vertical to horizontal, which had gradually degraded into more of that lovely kissing they'd engaged in on the beach, which had significantly less gradually evolved into something even more lovely.

Rose, however, despite what the Doctor was sure had been some very enthusiastic participation only moments before, seemed much less enthusiastic afterwards. She'd flipped over and scrunched up next to the wall, muscles tensed in her back, and said, "I shouldn't have done that."

"Unless I missed something – quite a lot of things, really – I don't think you were the only one involved, Rose."

"Look, let's just call this a mistake and move on, okay? It's not going to happen again."

"This didn't feel like a mistake," he said, trailing his finger along the nape of Rose's neck. "Well, I could have done without the bit with your mother pounding on the door to tell us we were overwhelming the zeppelin stabilisers."

A chuckle, muffled by the wall. Rose tilted her head towards the Doctor. "Mum's never going to let us forget that, is she?"

"Well, at least we didn't crash. Then we really would never hear the end of it, assuming we survived."

"God, I can see the headstone now. 'Here lies Rose Tyler, dead from shagging the wrong bloke.'"

"Rose ... I'm him. Honestly, I'm the same man. Barring an extra heart, but I assure you" – he nuzzled her shoulder – "everything else is exactly the same."

He thought her back had been tense before. Now it was like steel, and Rose again turned to face the wall. "We shouldn't have done this. I'm not ready – I'm, I don't know, _grieving._ "

"I could be wrong," the Doctor said, "but I'm fairly certain 'rebound sex' is not one of the five stages of grief."

"Right," Rose said. "This is _definitely_ not happening again."

 

 **Anger**  
Days dragged by one painfully ordinary minute after another, each one precisely in temporal order. It was maddening. Even randomly whirling the hands on Pete's antique grandfather clock to give himself an artificial sense of time passing in much more pleasant skips and hops wasn't enough to soothe him.

He had two new suits, and falsified identification papers Torchwood's boffins had produced with cheerless efficiency, and a tasteful but personality-free bedroom next door to Rose's, which was as close as she was allowing him to get to her bed for now. Rose was still her bubbly self, at least in front of others. Occasionally, even alone with him.

But in the smallest hours of the morning, when the mansion was silent save for the mysterious creaks and groans all houses seemed to have in the dark, sometimes he could hear Rose crying. Three times he'd found himself outside her door, palm pressed to the wood, his whole body vibrating with the need to fix whatever was making her so unhappy.

Three times he'd walked back to his own room, vibrating with anger that _he_ – well, both of him – was responsible for that unhappiness.

Tonight would be different. Tonight, if he heard her, he'd knock gently on her door, kneel at her feet, let her drip tears all over his pyjamas until she was fixed. Until she was happy, however long it took.

Until all he could hear in his head was her, and not the vast silence where the trill of a love song had once been.

Instead, when Rose told him he could come in, she was standing by her bed, her fists balled at her side.

"You wanker! You just left us here! You left _me_ here, after all I did to get back to you!"

"Rose, do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds with me standing right here?"

"You know what I mean."

"I do, but I didn't strand us here; he did. So there's no point in yelling at me about it."

"Can't you make him come back for us? Or we could, I don't know, rebuild the cannon or something."

"That cannon could have destroyed both our universes, Rose. It only worked because Davros had already weakened things. We can't risk it. We have to make the best of it here together." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Or ... not together, I suppose. If that's what you want."

A separation. Of course. How had he not seen it before? Stupid rubbish human emotions getting the better of him, letting him believe that if he loved her enough, surely she'd come round. But his mouth, always half a second ahead of his brain, had the truth of it this time.

"Not together? Seriously?" Rose blinked, and wiped her eyes.

"Well, obviously I remind you of him, and while nominally that's a good thing – we're both handsome devils, smart as a whip, charming ..."

"Modest, too."

"I'm just saying maybe having me around right now isn't helping ... and I can leave if you want. Give you time to sort things out until you know whether you want me back."

She moved closer to him, peered up at his face through red-rimmed eyes. "You're a wanker _and_ an idiot."

He tried not to notice that from this angle, he could see straight down her pyjama top. It only made things hard, in multiple senses.

"Rose," he said slowly, "you're going to have to forgive me, but I think I'm a bit confused."

"Look," she replied, "just because I want to punch him in the face, doesn't mean I want you to leave."

"It doesn't?"

"No, you idiot, it doesn't. Of course it doesn't."

Scratch what the mouth had said. Stupid mouth, as stupid and rubbish as those human emotions, except for the ones telling him he had to do something stupid himself on the off chance it led to something significantly less rubbish.

"In that case," he said, "any chance I'm ever going to get to kiss you again?"

Rose grabbed the lapels of his pyjama top and whispered in his ear, "Lock the door first."

* * *

Some time later, long after Jackie had stopped pounding on the door yelling about waking the neighbours down the road if they kept at it like that, the Doctor turned to Rose and said, "I'm still fairly certain rebound sex isn't part of the grieving process."

"Maybe it's not rebound sex anymore." She curled tighter against his side, tapped her fingers on his chest. "You might need to help me sort that out." The fingers carefully marched their way down his ribcage, pausing at his hipbone, then making a sharp turn down and inwards.

Whatever part of the grieving process this was, he approved.

 

 **Bargaining**  
It wasn't rebound sex, but it wasn't a relationship, either. Or if it was, it was one of those uniquely complicated modern relationships in which both parties were friendly with one another right up to the point where one dropped into a pitch-black snit about being parted from other things they loved, after which there was a great deal of accusatory yelling, occasionally followed by a vigorous shag.

No doubt Donna would have had some clever turn of phrase for it: "frenemies with benefits," perhaps, or "that git Dennis I was shagging for about three weeks there." From the Doctor's perspective, it was simply frustrating not knowing where he stood at any given moment, much less whether there was anything he could do to avoid a pitch-black snit, his or Rose's.

Most frustrating was not being able to employ his favourite avoidance technique, but that was another universe away right now. He felt a snit coming on, not quite pitch-black yet, but rapidly slipping down the spectrum.

He was sitting by the koi pond, tossing stale baguette to a writhing frenzy of fish and contemplating whether his snit had reached ultraviolet levels, when Rose dropped down beside him.

"Do you think there's anything we could have done that'd have got him to stay?"

"Not unless I clamped the TARDIS." He sighed. "Look, Rose, this isn't about you, and honestly, it's not about me, either. It's about him not being able to accept the mistakes he's made. I should know."

"All I need is fifteen minutes with him. Fifteen minutes! He needs a good slap and a lecture he'll never forget."

"Only fifteen minutes? So, he's getting the abridged version, then?"

"Oh, shut up."

"Do you really want to go back to him now?"

"I don't know. I really don't." She paused. "A few months ago, yeah. But now ..."

The Doctor ripped off another chunk of bread and flung it far into the pond, watched the fish splash over each other in their haste to reach it. "Now you're accustomed to this sad, old face?"

"Yeah, kind of." Rose leaned her head against his shoulder so briefly he almost thought it was an accident, but there was no mistaking the smile on her face.

"You could have come, too, you know," she continued. "Mmm, two of you to deal with. All sorts of possibilities there."

His arm froze mid-throw. "Just what kind of possibilities did you have in mind, Rose?"

She pushed herself up off the ground, patted grass clippings off her jeans. "Come back up to the house when you're done, and maybe we can have a demonstration."

 

 **Depression**  
Insomnia had been the Doctor's status quo for so many years that he was shocked to discover it could happen to him by accident. Nights when he actually wanted to be asleep – which was weird enough in and of itself – he might instead find himself lying awake, restlessness jittering down to his toes, his brain whirling in futile frustration.

_You let him make this trade for you, one girl for another. You'll never see the other one again. She'll always be a hole in your heart, your one pathetic, ordinary, human heart. People die from holes in their heart. You'll die, too, someday, and maybe you won't even have been good enough to hold on to Rose, because maybe you're as hopelessly unfixable as Davros himself._

_Maybe Rose will never, ever love you back. Maybe she's right not to._

He huffed, threw back the covers, and sat on the edge of the bed, brooding. How had he spent all his sleepless nights before this? Ah, yes: tinkering with the TARDIS, whispering sweet nothings to her wiring. Travelling with her, even if they didn't always wind up where he'd planned. Getting into trouble, relying on her to whisk him away to the next adventure.

Now, the best he could hope for was a cup of chamomile tea and a supremely boring book. Pete's study had a small business theory collection the Doctor had found invaluable the last time he'd been stuck awake in the middle of the night; nothing sent him right back to dreamland like lovingly detailed analyses of productivity maximisation techniques.

Halfway to the study, flickering light and shadow along the corridor drew him to the living room, where he found Rose curled up on the sofa with a tub of ice cream and the telly tuned to a shopping channel. Even muted, the hosts looked far too excited given the merchandise they were pushing, which unless the Doctor was mistaken, was a matched set of Tiffany-style lamps shaped like hedgehogs.

"A two-for-one offer," the Doctor said. "How many hedgehog lamps does the average home need?"

"Ask Mum," Rose replied, doggedly excavating a walnut from the ice cream. "She's got one on her makeup table. Bought it last week."

He stared at her. "Please tell me you're making that up."

"Nope. All the money in the world, but sometimes she's got to have a tatty hedgehog lamp."

He shook his head and sat beside her, carefully wedging himself in next to her feet. "Pass the ice cream, will you? I can't be expected to shop for insectivore-shaped lighting on an empty stomach."

Rose drew the tub back to her chest. "Don't even look at it, or I'll cut that hand right back off." She nodded towards the kitchen. "Two more in there, if you want them."

"Maybe later, if I'm still awake."

"If you're having the same night I am, that'll be a while."

"Can't sleep either?"

"I don't know what's wrong lately. Sometimes, I'm fine, yeah? And then some nights I wake up and it's like I can't stop thinking about ..."

"Thinking about what?"

"What I did wrong. How if I'd just held on to that lever a little longer, I'd still be with him. You know how many nightmares I had about that room after I got here? Hundreds. Maybe more. And then we started working on the cannon and they were gone, until you got here."

He stiffened. "So this is my fault then. As usual."

"No. Stop. It's not like that. I've worked it out."

"Have you, now."

"Yeah, I have," she said. "Or I'm trying to, anyway. I think they're just ... leftovers. Little bits of me trying to come to terms with him really being gone. Because you know what else keeps me up sometimes?"

"What?"

"Thinking you might leave me for being such a cow."

"... oh."

"Yeah."

"Rose, does this mean ..." He leaned closer to her, fixing her eyes with his. The television light glimmered across her face like rippling water. "Does this mean I can have some of your ice cream?"

"God, you're useless."

"But yours," he said, reaching for the spoon.

 

 **Acceptance**  
"The light's beautiful in here," Rose said. "But that paint's got to go. What'd the estate agent call it? 'Tangerine' or something? It'd be like living inside a giant orange."

"Still," the Doctor said, peering inside the bedroom's walk-in closet that, while large, stubbornly continued not being dimensionally transcendental, "good location, bit of a yard, should have a nice view of the stars from the rooftop."

Rose walked into the closet and twirled in a circle. "Oh, this closet. Look at the shelving! And built-in drawers! Never mind you, I'm moving in here."

The Doctor caught her at the waist and spun her to face him. Her face glowed with happiness. Either that, or it was light bouncing off the tangerine walls.

"You really want this?" he said softly.

Rose slid her arms round his neck and scratched the back of his scalp affectionately. "We're probably not supposed to christen it until we've signed the papers, have we?"

"No," he said, though he had to admit, it was tempting. "Besides, it just won't be the same without your mum here to bang on the door."

"We'll live."

"Yeah," he said. "I suppose we will."


End file.
